


Baby, I'm a Wreck

by Pixiepeekboo



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Action, Boyfriends, Couple goals, Enemies to Lovers, Fanfic, Fluff, M/M, Marvel - Freeform, Slow Burn, Spiderpool - Freeform, Spideypool - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23691763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixiepeekboo/pseuds/Pixiepeekboo
Summary: Deadpool and Spider-Man make an alliance to take down The Boss, who has stolen something from Oscorp Industries and banter ensues between them as they struggle to work together.
Relationships: Spiderpool, Spideypool
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	Baby, I'm a Wreck

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, Everyone! Sorry I'm so hopeless at titles. 
> 
> Have some Spideypool for your reading pleasure!

Historically, Peter Parker had never despised anyone so instantaneously as he did the deadbeat Deadpool Wade Wilson. They tolerated each other in the sense that sometimes, their paths intersected, and occasionally carried them in the same direction, no matter the means of each. So Peter couldn’t completely hate him, because of the many atrocious things Wade was, the only thing he was not was evil.  
However, Peter’s patience was as thin as a wafer at this point, and it had everything to do with the way the antihero was sitting across from him.  
Deadpool insisted on his chauffeur driving, which would have been fine, but then the two of them were in the backseat, and Deadpool wasn’t even attempting to be sly. He was blatant in his exploding affection as he heaped stuffed animals and the bloodied hearts of his enemies in Peter’s lap. He also kept trying to place a champagne glass in Peter’s hand, but if there was anything Peter was strict about while on the job as his alter ego, Spider-Man, it was not drinking. He didn’t drink, period. He’d picked his poison, and it never contained alcohol.  
Despite the growing pile in his lap, Peter didn’t want to hurt Wade’s feelings by pushing it off, so he suffered mostly in silence, except for the exasperated sigh he gave every time Deadpool dropped another item in his lap.  
“I feel like you’re not focused on the mission,” he said, “Are you focused? Because, if you’re not, you need to tell me right now. There’s no reason for us to get killed.”  
Deadpool giggled, flinging his entire body backward against the seat. Champagne splashed his chauffeur. Peter mouthed “Sorry,” when the man turned, growling, to glare into the backseat. “Oh, Spider-Man,” Deadpool said, leaning in toward Peter, “You know I can’t be killed. It is sweet of you to worry, though. Tugs at my heartstrings.” He thumped his chest with a fist then coughed. Peter fought the urge to roll his eyes.  
“Me, Wade,” he said. “I could die!”  
Deadpool pshawed. “As if I’d let death release you from this relationship! Plus,” he said. “You’re forgetting. I’d never let you die, Peter Par,” Spider-Man lurched between them and clamped a hand over Deadpool’s mouth – or in that general direction, as he was wearing a mask, and sometimes, Peter wondered if he even had a mouth, or if their conversations were actually telepathic.  
“Spider-Man,” Peter corrected. He met the chauffeur’s glance in the rearview mirror. The man looked endlessly bored.  
“As if I could forget. Ooh!” Wade tackled Peter until he was plastered against the opposite window. “We’re here! Thanks, darling!” he called to the chauffeur, as he flung open the door and launched Peter into the oncoming traffic.  
Peter dangled midair for a breath, aware of the rush of the traffic, the thick scent of gasoline mingling with the scent of sunshine on the wet pavement. Then Deadpool flipped over him, his shadow crossing the street below Peter. “Catch me, Spider-Man!” he sang over his shoulder as he was about to get plowed by a semi. Peter leaped after him, his fourth and middle fingers activating the sensor at the heel of his palm. Webbing shot out in a glistening spiral over the side of the bridge, toward the street one level below them.  
The eyes of Deadpool’s mask crinkled in delight, and Peter knew, he knew without a doubt, that Wade was smiling. Then their bodies collided and Peter locked his arms around Wade, allowing the webbing to snap them out of the path of the oncoming vehicles and over the side of the bridge. Deadpool’s squeal was deafening and Peter considered dropping him. As if he was aware, Deadpool spun in his grasp, and pushed off of him, unsheathing the double blades from the scabbards across his back and dropped for the roof of a squat building that housed, amongst the illegally manufactured drugs and sedatives, a gang who stole something from Oscorp Industries.  
Deadpool hit the one skylight on the rooftop and shattered it, falling through to the room below. Peter’s heart jumped in his chest. This wasn’t what they’d discussed, but then, he’d never known Deadpool to follow instructions. It was part of the reason why working with him was so unpredictable.  
Peter dove through the broken skylight after him and landed on the walkway above the workstations. A washing machine hurtled past him – he flicked a web after it, and peered over the railing of the walkway. Below, Deadpool instigated a massacre: mangled and dismembered bodies littered the floor, but artistically, with intention in every spray of blood and gory, severed body pieces.  
With a sigh, Peter snared Deadpool’s slashing, downward blade and hoisted it back before he could slice off one of the henchman’s heads. Wade whipped around to look at him. “Oh, ho, look who it is. The entire conscience of this operation! You better look out, you criminals – not because he’ll hurt you. Oh, no, he couldn’t do that even if he wanted to. But if you hurt him, well, let’s just say that I’ll -”  
“Save it, Deadpool,” Spider-Man said, swinging down and punching the henchman across the room. She landed against three others, and they all crumpled to the floor in a heap, like a deck of cards discarded. “We’re looking for The Boss,” he called to the henchmen. “And we’re kind of in a hurry, so if one of you would kindly redeem yourselves and tell us where the bugger is, we’ll be on our way.” Spider-Man was vaguely aware, in his peripheral vision (which was kind of like rearview mirrors, if you thought about it, something that you had, but never really paid attention to, until something made movement within its parameters) of Deadpool gaping at him. He half turned to shrug at him, simultaneously webbing the four henchmen that charged them.  
“What now, Wade?” he asked.  
Deadpool sauntered up to him, and let his fingers drift across Spider-Man’s stomach. “You’re so sexy when you’re fighting,” he cooed, then roared, “Where the fuck is the Boss?”  
Spider-Man, despite his mask, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just do your job,” he told himself. “Don’t worry about what Deadpool’s doing. Wait. Where’d he go? Deadpool!” He glimpsed Deadpool’s ass as it was disappearing through the double doors at the end. It was like running back with a toddler – he was ridiculously quick that, even with Spider-Man’s spider senses, he couldn’t quite keep pace with the infamous Merc with a Mouth.  
Flinging the end of his web at the walkway, he used it to give himself momentum to swing through the doors after him.  
Everything in the room crystallized as Peter absorbed the situation. The instant scan told him that, while there were certainly enough Henchmen, the Boss was not on location. He must have known they were coming and was using his armies as a sleight of hand while he escaped. Peter glanced at where Wade had run up the wall, leaving the henchmen opened mouthed behind him. He’d sheathed the swords in favor of his guns, one in each hand (he always had to have two of everything, one to occupy each hand otherwise he’d lose focus in the middle of whatever he was doing).  
Peter shook his hands out at his sides, then ran forward and jumped, throwing himself in an aerial spiral with both arms stretch out, one creating a sweeping web that knotted the henchmen together, the other bundling Wade’s arms against his sides so he wouldn’t be able to shoot anyone. By the time he landed, on the other side of the room, the henchmen were trapped like flies. Peter snapped his wrist, and Wade pirouetted to his side.  
“Bro,” Deadpool said, leaning in. “If I wasn’t wearing a mask, I’d kiss you.”  
“Boss isn’t here,” Spider-Man said. “This is a trap – wait, what?”  
Deadpool jumped forward, arms still trapped against his sides. “Fucker!” he screamed at the sports car tearing around the corner. He looked back at Spider-Man. “Web them and untie me, babe. Unless, you’d prefer me tied?”  
Spider-Man broke the threads. “Focus, Wade, focus. We have a mission here. Boss has a Black Opal. Why is that important to this narrative?”  
Deadpool held up his hands. “Pause a minute. Let me go back to the beginning. I’ve been trying to read along, but you know how much reading bores me. Hold up, hold up, I don’t think the writer ever mentioned the purpose of our mission. Awfully lazy.”  
Spider-Man swore some blood vessels burst in his temples. “What are you talking about?”  
Wade cocked his head at him, hands on his hips, and Peter decided he’d rather not know.  
“Never mind,” he said, breaking into a sprint and shooting a web up the side of the building. “We have to get that Black Opal, because it’s a fake – inside it, they’re hiding a lethal sedative that could put a person unconscious indefinitely – and they’re going after the mayor!”  
Deadpool ran along beneath him, keeping pace. “Well,” he said, “that’s what happens when you expose the underground mafia. Ooh, I’ll take some of that,” he said, to the vendor he passed. He snatched a hot dog from the stand.  
The sports car was getting away – it veered through two stoplights, and was screaming toward the open gap in the city – there weren’t any structures Spider-Man could use to web himself across after it. It was too late to go back to the chauffeur and use that to pursue them. There was definitely no way either of them could run fast enough catch it.  
He peeked down at Deadpool, who’d pushed up his mask up to his nose so he could eat the hot dog. The sky rumbled above them again, and then it was raining. Peter groaned. He’d thought the storm was over. Apparently not. But looking down at Deadpool gave him an idea.  
“Hey,” he said, “Want to go for a ride?”  
Peter immediately regretted the way he’d worded the question as Deadpool flung his half eaten hot dog into a random pedestrian’s face and leaped through the air into Spider-Man’s arms.  
“Yes,” he said, a lot more seriously than Peter had expected. Spider-Man hefted him in his arms.  
“Good. Because you’re about to go for one.”  
With a huff, Spider-Man hurtled Deadpool like a human javelin after the sports car. He torpedoed straight for it. Peter swung to the ground, having reached the final edge of the building and sprinted after them. Wade’s maniacal laughter was almost enough to make him laugh, but this mission was too important for him to get distracted.  
The henchman in the passenger seat unrolled the window and leaned out of it, holding a bazooka. Peter instantly regretted having thrown Wade like a shooting star. Wade, however, seemed to be having the best time of his life, as he neared the henchman, he cried out, “Make a wish, motherfuckers!”  
He popped a bullet in the henchman’s face, then swung himself through the open window and shot the driver (Peter knew because there was a spray of red out the other window and while he winced, it was one of the downsides working with Deadpool. He had to remind himself that these people were evil clones of the original Boss and technically didn’t even feel it when they were killed).  
The car fishtailed as Deadpool grappled with the Boss in the backseat. Peter webbed the back of the car, yanking it to a halt before it could careen over the side of the turnpike. The back door separated from its hinges and sailed to the other side of the street. Peter ran up to the car as Deadpool tumbled out, holding Boss by his collar. His body looked wrinkled in ways that were unnatural and unsettling to examine. Spider-Man shuddered, but flicked his fingers at him, binding him tight with webbing and reaching for the black opal clutched in his fist.  
“I’ll take that.” He tucked the false gem in his pocket then attached a web line to the cocoon he’d wrapped around Boss and tossed it at the last streetlamp. Boss might have argued the point, but Peter shot a web against his mouth to keep him from saying any of the typical villain stuff they always said about revenge and finding and destroying everything he loved. It got old after a while. Sometimes, he just wanted to not hear the negative, you know?  
“We did it! We actually made a decent – Deadpool?”  
He glanced at where Wade lounged against the car, blood streaming with the rain water down the paint job.  
“I want you to paint me,” he coughed, “like one of your French girls,” he said.  
Peter fidgeted with the gem in his pocket. “I don’t know what that means. Are you – are you all right?”  
Deadpool lifted himself from the car. “I’m fine as your grandmother’s china,” he said, then stumbled backward over the guard rail, free falling for the interstate below. Peter plunged after him. He didn’t even think about it, he just – leaped over the edge. His web caught Deadpool by the knees, and then he flung the opposite end at the side of the bridge. The web extended with Peter’s fall, until he landed in the street, and Deadpool boinged slightly – their faces level, though one of them was upside down and the other was not. Deadpool’s mask was still pushed up to his nose, and Peter could see the ribbed scars on his skin, his chapped lips, the edge of his jaw so sharp he could grate cheese with it.  
Rain beaded on Deadpool’s face. “Peter,” he said. “I’ve got an inkling.”  
Peter laughed, moving closer. “You’ve got a what?” he asked.  
“I’ve got an inkling,” he said, “that now would be a good time for you to kiss me.”  
“What?” Peter’s heart electrified in his chest.  
“Well,” Deadpool said, “you saved me, and I’ve seen this before, and I know you can’t resist a good angle, and -”  
Peter told himself he did it to shut Wade up, but he didn’t.  
Peter told himself that he was rewarding Deadpool for being so helpful, albeit in a very murdery, blood-soaked way, but he wasn’t.  
Peter told himself that a kiss between maybe-friends-sometimes-enemies-but-definitely-not-archenemies-or-nemesis didn’t mean anything, but it did.  
Peter rolled up the edge of his mask, up over his mouth, and taking Wade’s face between his hands, he opened his mouth against his. He kissed him roughly and hungrily, biting and feverish. It was electric under his lips and lightning through his veins, and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think beyond the sensations buzzing through him, like the build-up in music, right before the drop, and then Deadpool hummed into his mouth, and kissed him back, and there was the beat drop, and it was so good Peter’s brain was wiped clean of everything that wasn’t this: kissing Wade Wilson in the rain after apprehending the Boss.


End file.
